Chapter 9 - Caelan
Three days of captivity, and I still haven’t found a single way to contact my sister.
I’ve searched every inch of this miserable cabin while Patrick hunts or gathers firewood or does whatever else he does to avoid being in the same room with me.
On the first day, I tore through the shelves and drawers and every crack in the floorboards, hoping to find something useful.
The spaces between the logs in the walls got my attention on the second day, because I thought maybe someone had hidden something there years ago.
By the third day, I’d examined the pack he brought at least four more times, and still I came up empty.
There’s no phone. There are no communication crystals like the ones the allied packs use for emergencies.
Not even a scrap of paper exists in this place, and even if it did, getting a note to Sera would be impossible.
Tossing a letter into the wind and hoping the universe delivers it to my sister’s doorstep isn’t exactly a viable strategy.
Carrier birds don’t exist outside of fantasy novels, and the magical communication methods the Hysopp witches are rumored to possess remain far beyond my reach.
My connection to everyone who matters has been completely severed. This tiny cabin has become my prison, and the man I should hate is my only companion.
The problem is that hating him gets harder with every passing hour.
Patrick keeps a respectful distance, just like he promised he would.
That thin blanket can’t possibly be warm enough, but every night he sleeps on the floor near the fireplace without complaint.
Not once has he tried to touch me or crowd my space or even look at me for too long.
It’s like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he pays me too much attention.
During the day, he hunts and brings back rabbits and squirrels that he cleans outside so I don’t have to watch.
Then he cooks them over the fire, seasoning the meat with wild herbs he forages from the forest. The smell makes my stomach growl so loudly I’m sure he can hear it from across the room, but I refuse to eat anything he offers.
At least, I refuse for the first day and a half.
Then hunger wins out, and I choke down the roasted rabbit while glaring at him from my spot on the bed.
Gloating would be expected, but he doesn’t comment on my surrender at all.
He just hands me a plate and goes back to sharpening that worn hunting knife of his, giving me space to eat without feeling watched.
I hate that he’s being so damn considerate.
What I hate even more is the way my wolf reacts to him.
She whines whenever he’s nearby, pressing against my consciousness with a longing I refuse to acknowledge.
Thornridge means nothing to her. Neither does the kidnapping nor the forced marriage.
All she cares about is the fact that he’s our mate, and she wants to be close to him with a desperation that makes me want to claw my own skin off.
About a hundred times a day, I tell her to shut up. She doesn’t listen. She never listens.
The mate bond pounds between us constantly, and severing the connection seems impossible, no matter how hard I try. His guilt bleeds into me whenever he looks my way, as this heavy ache settles in my chest like it belongs there.
When I refuse to eat, his worry gnaws at my edges until I can’t tell if the anxiety is mine or his. At night, when he lies on that hard floor separated from me by ten feet that might as well be ten miles, echoes of his loneliness drift through our bond and make me feel things I don’t want to feel.
None of it is welcome. Knowing that he’s suffering too makes everything harder, and I need things to be simple right now. Villains are supposed to be easy to hate, and he’s making that impossible.
On the second morning, I decide I’ve had enough of waiting.
Patrick leaves just after dawn to check the snares he set the night before. Through the grimy window, I watch his broad shoulders get swallowed by the mist within seconds. The moment he disappears from view, I’m out the door and running.
My wolf lunges to the surface eagerly, thrilled to finally be doing something besides pacing the confines of that tiny cabin.
Mid-stride, I let her take over, and my Amanzite pendant absorbs my clothes as I drop onto four paws.
Soft earth covered in years of fallen pine needles and decomposing leaves cushions my steps.
My claws dig into the ground as I race through the trees as fast as my legs can carry me.
Freedom tastes like cold morning mist and pine needles and possibility.
The run feels like it lasts forever. Ancient tree trunks rush past me as I weave between them, and moss-covered logs become obstacles I clear with easy leaps.
Fog swirls around me in thick gray curtains, but I don’t care.
Any direction is better than that cabin, and any path is better than staying trapped with a Thornridge wolf who makes my heart so confused.
My paws eat up the distance. Speed has always been my advantage in wolf form.
I’m faster than most of the Llewelyn females, and every ounce of that speed gets used now.
Branches whip past me while underbrush crunches beneath my weight, and my breath comes in pants as mile after mile disappears behind me.
After what feels like miles, I finally slow down and take stock of my surroundings.
Nothing looks familiar.
The trees all blend together in the mist. Their bark is gray, and their branches reach toward a sky I can’t see.
Which direction I came from remains a mystery, as does which way leads to safety.
Grayhide territory could be anywhere, and Llewelyn might be fifty miles away or five.
Even figuring out which way is north seems impossible in this soup of gray.
The Hysopp forest has become a maze of fog and shadow, and I’m completely lost in the middle of it.
Panic claws at my chest as I spin in a circle, searching for some landmark that might point me toward home.
Endless trees and swirling gray mist stretch in every direction, each shadow identical to the last. Days of wandering out here without finding my way out seem increasingly likely.
A wrong turn could lead me straight into Thornridge territory and a situation far worse than the cabin.
Dying alone in this forest, cold and starving and afraid, would mean Sera never learning what happened to me.
The thought makes a lump form in my throat.
I stand there for a long moment, cursing under my breath, before finally admitting defeat.
Going back is my only option, not because I want to, but because no other choice exists.
Patrick is the only one who knows how to navigate this forest, and as much as I despise being dependent on him, dying of exposure seems like a worse alternative.
Retracing my steps takes twice as long as the initial run.
Second-guessing myself becomes a constant companion, and I keep circling back to make sure I’m going the right direction.
By the time the cabin comes into view, exhaustion and humiliation and anger have all combined into one miserable knot in my chest.
Patrick is sitting on the front step when I emerge from the tree line. He doesn’t say a word as I approach, and his face shows no smugness or satisfaction about my failed escape. Those amber eyes just watch me, and the sadness in them makes me want to scream.
My transformation back to human form happens quickly, and then I’m storming past him into the cabin without a single word. Our shoulders brush as I pass, and the mate bond ignites hot at the contact. Before I can think about what that heat might mean, I slam the door behind me.
We don’t talk about it for the rest of the day.
By the third morning, a better plan has formed in my mind.
Blindly running into the forest clearly won’t work, so this time, stealth will be my strategy.
Slipping away quietly while Patrick is distracted makes more sense than bolting like a startled deer.
Moving slowly and carefully while keeping the sun’s position in mind will help me maintain a consistent direction.
Eventually, I’ll find a stream or a road or some other landmark to guide me toward civilization.
It’s a solid plan. A smart plan.
But Patrick doesn’t give me the chance to execute it.
Something must tip him off, because his eyes have barely left me all morning. When I step outside to use the outhouse behind the cabin, he’s watching the door when I return. A casual wander toward the window to gaze out at the forest brings him to my shoulder like a ghost.
“Beautiful morning,” he comments so casually.
“I hadn’t noticed,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“The fog is starting to lift a bit. Might be able to see some sun later.”
“Fascinating.”
My sarcasm doesn’t get a reaction. He just nods like I’ve said something meaningful and takes a seat on one of the wooden chairs. His jacket comes out along with a small sewing kit from the pack, and he starts mending a tear in the sleeve with his attention seemingly focused on the task.
But I know damn well he’s watching my every move.
The next hour passes in agonizing slowness.
Wandering around the cabin gives me something to do while I pretend to be bored and search for the perfect moment to bolt.
The supplies on the table get straightened, then rearranged, then straightened again.
Poking at the fire kills a few minutes. Those rusted pots on the shelf become the most fascinating objects I’ve ever encountered as I examine them from every angle.
Patrick watches it all without comment as his needle moves steadily through the fabric of his jacket.
My opportunity finally comes around midday, when he steps into the back corner to grab something from the supply pack. It’s only a few seconds of distraction, but I take it.
The door flies open as I bolt through it. My feet hit the porch, and I’m about to launch myself toward the tree line when strong arms wrap around my waist and haul me backward.
A snarl tears from my throat as I thrash against his grip. “Let go of me!”
Patrick doesn’t release me. His arms become iron bands around my middle as he holds me against his chest and waits for me to stop struggling.
My kicks find his shins, my nails claw at his forearms, and my head flies back, hoping to catch his chin.
None of it works. He’s too strong and too fast, and he absorbs every blow without loosening his hold even a fraction.
“Please.” His voice sounds so weary that something twists in my stomach. “Please stop making me chase you.”
“Then let me go!”
“I can’t do that, Caelan. Thornridge will find you if I let you go. They’re still out there searching, and you won’t make it ten miles before they pick up your trail.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that, because I helped train the wolves they’ll send after you.
” His breath ghosts across my ear, and I hate the shiver that runs down my spine.
“Bastian knows these forests almost as well as I do. If you run, he’ll catch you, and what he has planned is much worse than anything I’ve done. ”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m sure he can feel it through my back.
He turns me around to face him, keeping his hands on my shoulders. “There’s no reason for you to believe me, and I know I’ve given you every reason to hate me. But I’m telling you the truth about this. If you run, you’ll die. Or worse.”
Arguments crowd my tongue. Accusations that he’s just trying to scare me into submission nearly spill out. Part of me wants to believe this is all some elaborate manipulation designed to break down my resistance.
But the fear in his eyes looks so real. The exhaustion etched into his features looks authentic. And the mate bond between us carries nothing but honest desperation.
He’s not lying. He might be many things, but right now, in this moment, he’s not lying about this.
I yank free of his grip, and this time, he lets me go. Several steps put distance between us as I wrap my arms around myself like armor.
“What do you want from me? Why are you doing this? If you just wanted a Llewelyn mate, there are easier ways to get one than kidnapping.”
“I don’t just want a Llewelyn mate.” He runs a hand through his dark hair and exhales slowly. “You’re the one I want. My wolf recognized you the moment I saw you in that bar, and everything I’ve done since then has been about keeping you alive.”
“By trapping me in a cabin in the middle of nowhere?”
“By getting you away from Thornridge before they could use you as a weapon against your own pack.” One step brings him toward me, but he stops when he sees me tense.
“None of this is what you wanted, and I know that. Stealing your choices and your freedom was never my goal. But if I had to do it all again, I would make the same decision, because at least you’re alive. At least you’re safe.”
“I don’t feel safe.” The whisper scrapes past my lips before I can stop it. “I feel like a prisoner.”
His face crumples for just a moment before he gets control of himself again. For that brief second, he looks as broken as I feel, and something in my chest cracks at the sight.
“I know,” he admits. “And I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry for all of it.”
The quiet between us stretches long enough for me to hear the fire crackling and the wind whispering through the gaps in the walls. Part of me wants to retreat to the bed, turn my back on him, and pretend he doesn’t exist for however long we’re stuck here together.
But curiosity burns in my chest, stubborn and persistent despite my best efforts to smother it.
What he said about Thornridge not being what I think keeps replaying in my mind, over and over like a song I can’t shake.
He said he has a brother named Jonas, which haunts my thoughts, along with the other wolves he claims are trapped in a pack they never chose.
Why would a Thornridge warrior risk everything to save an enemy he’d known for less than a day?
None of this makes sense unless he’s telling the truth about at least some of it.
“You said you’d explain.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “About Thornridge. About why you wanted out.”
Patrick blinks at me, and hope comes alive in those amber eyes.
“I did say that.”
“Fine.” The small table is only a few steps away, and I drop into one of the wooden chairs before I can change my mind. My arms fold across my chest as I fix him with my hardest stare, the one Sera always said could curdle milk. “You have ten minutes.”